lap. “The number didn’t matter.”
The effort it had taken to make me understand had exhausted him, and he rose and grasped the railing to pull himself upstairs to bed.
But I was understanding, at least a little. I remembered how much importance color held for Sister Marie Pierre. Once she sentme across place de la Concorde on some errand, and when I returned she asked me what was the color of the hollows of the hieroglyphics carved into the Egyptian obelisk.
“I don’t know. Gray!”
“Don’t just tell me gray. Gray is a noncolor. Strictly speaking, the Impressionists never used it.” She motioned with her arm that I should go back out.
Fuming, I grabbed my coat and walked the distance again. When I got back, I reported, “Green-gray on the south side, yellow-gray on the west side, violet-gray on the north side, and blue-gray on the east side.” Then she was pleased, but I remember having taken secret delight in including the word gray in each color.
A NDRÉ CAME IN THE door with his lips turned down at the corners and his eyes downcast as well.
“What? No frame shop in Avignon?”
“He doesn’t know of any. Maybe I can get some furniture repair work.” He took a weary breath. “I’ve been to the post office.” He held out an envelope, but he seemed painfully reluctant to let go of it.
“Who could it be from? Maxime!”
He had already opened it. I yanked it out of the envelope, skipped the salutation, and read:
I hope you are well and enjoying the warm south. Without you here, I have been in a definite slump until early this week when I sold a painting in Galerie Laforgue. It was a dancing harlequin with a sad face by André Derain. Monsieur Laforgue had been away for a few days, and when I told him the news, he was elated. So elated that he took on a woman as an apprentice gallery attendant, I regret to say. That threw me back into a slump again. To celebrate the sale, he took me to the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées to see Josephine Baker dance wearing only a skirt made of bananas, but after having seen it before, I thought it had grown stale. I’m sure it was due to my mood. I had hoped he would hold off hiring anyone until you came back. She may not last long. She’s haughty, overbearing, and opinionated, though she does have a good eye. I’m dreadfully sorry, Lisette .
I have hope for Pascal’s swift recovery and for your quick return .
Your friend, Maxime
André put his arm around my shoulders. “I’m sorry, too.”
CHAPTER SIX
ANDRÉ’S GIFT
1937
F OR DAYS , I COULD HEAR A NDRÉ SAWING, POUNDING, AND sanding in our courtyard, working until dark. He had told me not to come out there. He had even closed the shutters so I couldn’t look out the south windows. Even so, the aromatic scent of freshly cut pine told me what he was doing, and it wasn’t making a frame. Still feeling ashamed for creating trouble, yet full of pride in his grandson’s resourcefulness, Pascal knew too.
“André loves you,” Pascal said.
“I know.” Never for a moment did André let me feel unloved or taken for granted.
“We want so much for you to be happy here.”
“I know that too.” I arranged a plate of apricots and peaches on the table in front of him, but I felt compelled to offer him something more.
“When I was seventeen and still living with the Daughters of Saint-Vincent-de-Paul, a nun found a position for me in a fine pâtisserie . On that first day I was supremely happy learning the names of the pastries and smelling almond, vanilla, and cinnamon, but she told me two things that morning that I will never forget. ‘Nomatter where life takes you,’ she said, ‘the place where you stand at any moment is holy ground. Love hard and love wide and love long, and you will find the goodness in it.’ ”
“She’s a wise woman. Camille would have agreed.”
A FTER MORE THAN A WEEK , André invited us out to the courtyard. There it stood near the edge of the cliff, just what I had
The effort it had taken to make me understand had exhausted him, and he rose and grasped the railing to pull himself upstairs to bed.
But I was understanding, at least a little. I remembered how much importance color held for Sister Marie Pierre. Once she sentme across place de la Concorde on some errand, and when I returned she asked me what was the color of the hollows of the hieroglyphics carved into the Egyptian obelisk.
“I don’t know. Gray!”
“Don’t just tell me gray. Gray is a noncolor. Strictly speaking, the Impressionists never used it.” She motioned with her arm that I should go back out.
Fuming, I grabbed my coat and walked the distance again. When I got back, I reported, “Green-gray on the south side, yellow-gray on the west side, violet-gray on the north side, and blue-gray on the east side.” Then she was pleased, but I remember having taken secret delight in including the word gray in each color.
A NDRÉ CAME IN THE door with his lips turned down at the corners and his eyes downcast as well.
“What? No frame shop in Avignon?”
“He doesn’t know of any. Maybe I can get some furniture repair work.” He took a weary breath. “I’ve been to the post office.” He held out an envelope, but he seemed painfully reluctant to let go of it.
“Who could it be from? Maxime!”
He had already opened it. I yanked it out of the envelope, skipped the salutation, and read:
I hope you are well and enjoying the warm south. Without you here, I have been in a definite slump until early this week when I sold a painting in Galerie Laforgue. It was a dancing harlequin with a sad face by André Derain. Monsieur Laforgue had been away for a few days, and when I told him the news, he was elated. So elated that he took on a woman as an apprentice gallery attendant, I regret to say. That threw me back into a slump again. To celebrate the sale, he took me to the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées to see Josephine Baker dance wearing only a skirt made of bananas, but after having seen it before, I thought it had grown stale. I’m sure it was due to my mood. I had hoped he would hold off hiring anyone until you came back. She may not last long. She’s haughty, overbearing, and opinionated, though she does have a good eye. I’m dreadfully sorry, Lisette .
I have hope for Pascal’s swift recovery and for your quick return .
Your friend, Maxime
André put his arm around my shoulders. “I’m sorry, too.”
CHAPTER SIX
ANDRÉ’S GIFT
1937
F OR DAYS , I COULD HEAR A NDRÉ SAWING, POUNDING, AND sanding in our courtyard, working until dark. He had told me not to come out there. He had even closed the shutters so I couldn’t look out the south windows. Even so, the aromatic scent of freshly cut pine told me what he was doing, and it wasn’t making a frame. Still feeling ashamed for creating trouble, yet full of pride in his grandson’s resourcefulness, Pascal knew too.
“André loves you,” Pascal said.
“I know.” Never for a moment did André let me feel unloved or taken for granted.
“We want so much for you to be happy here.”
“I know that too.” I arranged a plate of apricots and peaches on the table in front of him, but I felt compelled to offer him something more.
“When I was seventeen and still living with the Daughters of Saint-Vincent-de-Paul, a nun found a position for me in a fine pâtisserie . On that first day I was supremely happy learning the names of the pastries and smelling almond, vanilla, and cinnamon, but she told me two things that morning that I will never forget. ‘Nomatter where life takes you,’ she said, ‘the place where you stand at any moment is holy ground. Love hard and love wide and love long, and you will find the goodness in it.’ ”
“She’s a wise woman. Camille would have agreed.”
A FTER MORE THAN A WEEK , André invited us out to the courtyard. There it stood near the edge of the cliff, just what I had
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